Fifteen to Love
by Trickssi
Summary: Remus collected things that made him depressed. Sirius couldn't open his mouth quite enough for anyone to understand. How can they find each other? SBRL slash, now a three part series. Please read and review!
1. Game

Title: Game

Author: trickssi

Pairing: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin

Warnings: None.

Dedication: To C, my wonderful Remus whose birthday arrives in about a week. To my wonderful reviewers, for whom I've decided to write this sequel of sorts. To those whose love lives are b+w.

**Game**

There were few things in the world which Sirius Black could not do. It was mainly ice fishing ("How do fish even _survive_ in that kind of weather?"), making tacos that don't have pounds of meat/tomato/lettuce falling from all sides, and _not _procrastinating. There was also the matter of tolerating his family, but that hardly counted. After all, he escaped 12 Grimmauld Place with ease.

More important was his refractory refusal to shovel any manner of snow. He always ended up with the short shovel or boots without traction. More importantly, he chose the shovel or boots to mask the fact that he could not fare as well as others in the freezing conditions. Snow was such a muggle concern, anyhow. Didn't wizardry invent some way to prevent the task of moving solid precipitation? Apparently, there was too much commotion; if wizards with suburban homes tried to use a spell, the neighbors would notice and scandal would ensue and all that. Primitive shoveling, then, right.

The first time spoiled-brat Sirius ever needed to shovel snow was once that Christmas when he'd retreated to Moony's house instead of Prongs's, for the Potters decided that they ought to show James a few old magical castles before he was too old to have a family holiday. The Lupins were horridly old-fashioned. Naturally, they'd strayed away from magic after the Incident, but honestly. A driveway a mile long deserves a little special treatment, and not the kind in which one attaches a rusty curve to the front of a pickup. It was Remus's turn to shovel the driveway (which was only actually a quarter of a mile long) and he hated to be alone outside of his house.

That time hadn't been so bad. It wasn't windy, no chunks of sleet pounded his face. The calm snow seemed to float to the edges of the path. Of course, Remus was finished before him, but then again, Sirius had never experienced the dull work of shoveling anything. When they were finished, they sat in the centre of the pristine snow and attempted a snowman. The poor thing crumbled before it knew the meaning of Parson Brown. Then, there was sledding, and a great snowball war between the two. Sirius won at those events without question.

He remembers coming inside the house soggy and aching from laughter more than exertion. The fire enveloped him with smoky haze and memories of the common room. Since it was the Eve before Christmas Eve, Mrs. Lupin had begun her yearly cookie extravaganza. Italian wedding cookies were her specialty, as well as miniature cheesecakes. Remus loved chocolate chip, so there'd be at least two batches of those. This year, Sirius got to choose the type of cookies the Lupins would bring to all of their friends' parties.

"I guess… you've already got some chocolate chip, so more chocolate's probably not a good idea," he said.

"I disagree!" Remus shouted from across the room. "You can never have enough."

"Let's see. What's simple enough that we would have the ingredients already?" Mrs. Lupin pondered aloud. Sirius prayed that she didn't mean those cheap muggle cookies that came pre-sliced; the kind that you only popped right onto the tin and into the oven. Those weren't real cookies.

"How about sugar cookies? They're addicting," he suggested.

"Ooo! Don't we have icing, Mum? We could decorate them, too!"

"Sounds manageable. Let's see if we have all of the materials first, boys," Mrs. Lupin said. She was quite pragmatic on the exterior, but Sirius could tell she really cared for Remus's well-being. He was always pushed to do chores inside and to study and pass with flying colors, and to look for a job worth having. That's why Sirius intended to commandeer the kitchen for the making of said cookies. He was skilled in messes.

Mrs. Lupin indeed found all of the ingredients and passed them on to the boys. Little did she know that when she would return to the kitchen an hour later, flour would coat every surface like the snow on the ground.

"Aw, Moony, look, she's got cutters in the shape of crescents!" Sirius exclaimed upon finding them. He also found a dog, a star, a pig, a tree, an airplane that could be configured to look like a demented tree, and Santa Claus himself.

"That's nice. Could you pass the teaspoon of vanilla?"

"You expect me to have that when I'm finding the perfect molds for our cookies?" Sirius threw a mischievous glance as he held up a few of the tin templates.

It took Remus all of point-five seconds to reply, "Yes." Eventually, he got his vanilla, and the whole recipe was blended to death. Then came the fun part. Remus got out the flour, which he spread across the counter.

"What did you do that for?" Sirius asked.

"Haven't you ever made sugar cookies? This is to keep them from sticking to the counter."

"Oh." Obviously, flour was not made for that sole purpose. It was made for sticking your hand into the bag and putting the white handprint on your forehead while waiting for the cookies to come out of the oven. Remus didn't notice until his friend had turned around from retrieving the most recent batch.

"Padfoot!"

Setting the sheet down carefully, Sirius simply looked up. "…_What_?"

"Are you a fighting Uruk-hai?" Remus questioned. Oh. The handprint. He grinned wickedly.

"Yes." Then a huff of a sigh from the other side of the room, then a bark-laugh from Sirius, and elastic silence.

Most of the decoration of the cookies was left to Remus, the more artistic, although Sirius did manage to make one of the airplane-that-could-be-configured cookies into a brilliant tree, complete with star on top. And Sirius was very good at stealing the bits of excess dough, covering himself in sprinkles, and slightly burning some of the cookies. At least Remus's mum would eat those ones, he figured. All in all, the sugar cookies tasted better than the mess that was made, so every detail was worth it.

They wrapped up the sweets in cellophane to be left on the countertop. At the ten o'clock warnings of Mrs. Lupin, the boys decided it was best that they go to bed. Can't very well practice staying up late until _after_ Christmas. Remus went upstairs to brush his teeth, half-muttering a "good night" because things like that weren't often said in his house. Sirius showered to get the bits of sugar and flour out of his hair and collapsed on the makeshift bed the Lupins had provided in the basement. 10:24. Holy Merlin, they'd spent four hours making goddamn cookies the old-fashioned way.

10:30. The air was a bit too cold in this basement.

11:13. Wished he'd had a record player around somewhere.

11:42. The door creaked open without any reassuring light to provide a shadow, and a meek figure made its way onto the pull-out mattress. Well, it's about time. "Hey," Remus's distinct voice offered.

"Budge over, you're on my foot—One second! I'll get that," Sirius said. He shifted the blankets around so that Remus was no longer entangled. "What're you here for?" _Why did you keep me waiting_?—_Waiting for what…_

"Because it's cold and we've run out of blankets. For you. To sleep in. And I hate sleeping bags," he admitted.

Sirius shrugged. "Me too."

It could have been that Remus really was just cold, but then he wouldn't be close to Sirius under the sheets. Close not-touching-but-almost kind of a close. It could have been Sirius was just being a watchdog as Remus slept. He was more of a night owl.

Theories spun and toppled over at 12:16 when Sirius breathed into the back junction of Remus's neck and shoulder. He realized it all… He wanted to say something, but the body beside him was in the pattern of deep sleep. He wanted to jump up, lungs heaving, and shout, "I know something you don't know" in the way that means, "Guess what, Moons? I love you more than Christmas itself!" But he choked. The notion died in a hitch of frigid cellar air.

The next morning, the sheets were freezing again and the tap took ten minutes to heat up. Sirius plodded up the stairs horribly alone, but found a hot breakfast waiting across the table from Remus. The excited spark hit him in that instant that he saw Moony, pajama-clad, waiting for him. Sirius Black was very, very inept at telling people what he really wanted them to know.

Of course, still tells himself he's only piss poor at five things: the ice fishing, taco making, not procrastinating, shoveling snow, and putting up with his family. When the matter comes up… It never really comes up, but in his head when he thinks about it, he just substitutes his family for the way he insistently feels too much and shows too little. No matter how much he acts out, the words just don't come. Maybe next time Remus came to him he'd press himself more firmly to the boy's body, or maybe he'd steal the covers in a gesture of play. Maybe instead of whispering things to himself he'd whisper to Remus how grateful he was for all this, the cookies, shower, shoveling, the jocularity he found here. How warm he was, and how he just knew. _Knew what? _

"Oi, Remus, you're good at midnights."

* * *

Hope you liked. Think of it as a sort of Valentine's Day gift. Please review, and continue to watch for updates--I plan to make this a three-part series. Thanks for stopping by!  



	2. Set

Title: Set

Author: trickssi

Pairing: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin

Warnings: None this time.

Dedication: To my wonderful Remus. This is written for the fourth anniversary of her living in a different state. It's also for any lonely hearts out there because it really sucks to be on the outside, ne? Okay. Read, you!

**Set**

Fifth-year Remus J. Lupin collected things. Openly among his collection were quills, books, and random muggle objects. He received a pocket watch last Christmas from his father, who had received it from his own father by tradition of the family. But he never looked at it; he kept time stuffed in a box in the corner of his closet. The books on his shelf were not philosophical suggestions, and he liked to make sure no ounce of existentialism hit the dusty mahogany. As far as quills, he almost had a rainbow—purple, dull burgundies, greens, white plucked from Lily's owl. It seemed he only lacked normal tints, like brown and grey. He wanted so badly a new raven's feather to replace the cracked one he used so often. Perhaps he'd ask for it on his birthday, or on some other menial celebratory date.

These possessions were characteristic of an aesthete boy of any particular era. They were normal. Maybe _The Picture of Dorian Grey_, _A Separate Peace_, and Shakespeare's sonnets were odd additions, but magic folk knew nothing of them anyway.

If one were to open the bottom drawer of Remus J. Lupin's armoire at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, one would find a much rarer collection than the aforementioned. This is where he hid his most treasured belongings. Behind the parchment supplies on the right side, behind his beloved stash of quills, even. He figured anybody daft enough to get on his knees to view the drawer's contents wouldn't bother to get past the bottles of ink. It was clever to hide them in plain sight, knowing his oblivious mates wouldn't search for secrets in the parchment drawer. Because, you see, buried beneath the mess were his five treasures.

One. It was a green leather-bound journal sans lines. Inside, Remus, when he could, poured his efforts into free verse with a BIC ballpoint pen (he liked the texture of the page after he'd covered both sides; something of satisfaction). He tried to trace his creativity through the moon phases. But most of it ended up being poetry concerning or alluding to or for Sirius Black, against Remus's will. Flourish of handpicked adjectives in hopes that his heart wouldn't hurt too much after writing words that nobody would see. Actually, he thought about leaving one of his six sonnets in the library under a stolen nom de plume. That would provide anonymity, but Sirius might see it…

Not that he would care. Sirius wasn't the type to scour poetry, especially the soppy, rhymed kind. Surely anything he'd say would be deprecating to the author. Then again, masochism was bearable in comparison. One day, he thought. One day he'll show Sirius some of his tamer poetry and tell the truth.

Two. Wrapper from some box of Ice Mice he'd eaten when he and Sirius first went to Hogsmeade. Peter stayed behind to study that day and James had wandered off in search of the new flavor of Bertie Bott's. Sirius was intent on having his Ice Mice, however. As was his policy, he asked Remus if he cared for some, too; which he did, because he was famished. Sirius wouldn't let him pay for it—"Come on, Moons. It's just one sweet. Lemme get it." Remus wouldn't give up without a fight for the bill. But, oh, well. The candy became a gift as Sirius searched for the proper funds in his wallet. So, it was kept like a gift, box and all, which Remus would save until the label completely wore away.

Three. "Remus—" Sloppy handwriting with hooked g's. "Is there something wrong with you lately? Family members don't usually die spaced a month apart. I mean, if that's what's really happening, I'm terribly sorry, but I have a hunch it's more than that.

"Are you… How can I ask this. Tell me, Remus, are you a werewolf? It's okay to say so. By all means, please. I kind of figured it out a while ago. I always thought you looked a little pale from time to time. But that's just me—I'm sure nobody else cared to notice. I won't tell James or Pete.

"This doesn't change anything, I hope you know. We're still mates, right? So… I wanted to know if I can help. If living with lycanthropy is half as humiliating as having to live with my mother, I fully understand how you feel.

"Listen, if you ever want to talk about it or you need protection when you're at the Shack, I'm your man. I mean, I swear on Merlin's beard I won't tell a soul or fuss about it. 'Cause, you're like a brother to me. I don't want you to feel left out. Hey, write me when you get this.

"Sincerely—Sirius."

The creases were soft from constant folding, and more than a few of the lines had ink etchings around them. Remus's script added to Sirius's loops; doodles or half-formed thoughts, kind of how he felt when he thought about the letter. No matter the situation of the day, he could return to his drawer and read the real words of Sirius, each time unlocking some desperate hope for affection. But only sometimes did he even bother to take it out. Only when there was a fight or when he felt lonely after a full moon. He wasn't—_that_ sappy. Honestly, now. But would Sirius ever say his real words to his face? Ah… not exactly.

And number Four. Remus was smart enough to observe Sirius's routine for showering, and noticed that he often left his shampoo unattended. He emptied a travel-sized bottle of his own boring solution, and one day, filled it with some of Sirius's. It smelled sweet, but something stinging, too. Promised to make his hair "shiny" and "rejuvenated," sure. Who cared? It was the most invigorating smell. In the summer when Remus went to his parents' house, he'd bring the bottle and wash his hair once or twice with it. Every toss of his head evoked a unique scent memory. He was engulfed in Sirius again.

Sometimes he was convinced he could detect the scent on a passing student. It was a mildly common shampoo for the time. That was good because it was enjoying Sirius guiltlessly; it was bad—well, disadvantageous—because Sirius was not actually there, and he clung to a memory that faded in and out with the breeze.

In about a month he'll have to refill it.

Five at last. Five, the glorious crown jewel of his hopeful collection. James borrowed a camera from a friend of his, one that instantly printed a picture of its subjects. They had been hanging around the Whomping Willow that day to avoid studying for a Potions exam. Though, of course, Remus had brought his notes anyway for when the fun of the camera ended. Which it didn't.

Peter had swapped the camera as James offered to make a ridiculous face. In a flash, the moment was captured, and the four of them stooped over Peter's shoulder to see James's face in constant silly motion. They chucked that one to the side. Then, James asked Peter if he would take a picture of Sirius, Remus, and him. That particular photograph was later given to Peter on his birthday in a card. With all but one photo wasted on their boyish games, the four of them gave up the camera and laid on the grass to look at the sky. White squares of scenery littered the area.

Then at some point, Remus got up to fetch his notes. He didn't see, but Sirius leaned over to James and said, "Hold on. Get the camera. I've a brilliant idea…" In a moment, James was pressing the button, and Sirius ran and tackled Remus.

The photo now had yellowed edges and dulled colors. However, it still shows Sirius smiling and laughing as he knocks an unsuspecting Remus to the ground. After that, he smiles at Remus with an unbroken gaze. There's playfulness in his grey irises, but something else barely perceptible. Sirius blamed James's shaky hand. It was—well, it was something Remus liked to think of as one of those flirtatious glances. He liked to pretend that Sirius fell in love with him at that moment (no pun intended). Most of the time, he kept this photo underneath his pillow so he could have happy dreams.

It wasn't impressive, but Remus's horde was the most important thing in his young life. It kept him hoping past all of those lonely, abusive full moons that something or someone could save him from himself. That someone could care for him as he cared for them. That it would be Sirius.

Until he knew for sure, he only had his collection of things to love him back.

* * *

Thanks for reading. Kind of depressing, I know. I blame it on the pairing! (j/k, OTP, you should know). Please leave me a nice comment so I'm not bored when I'm dragged to the school library. 


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